and lay these weary bones to rest
by TingedAutumn
Summary: deep down, in his gut, jean knows that marco would make a better leader than he ever will. the cruel twist of fate is that no one else ever will.


Jean Kirstein meets Marco Bott on a warm, sunny day, when the two of them dream aloud of leaving behind the outer-walls and living life in the inner city.

Marco dreams of serving the king, of having the highest honour possible for a poor boy from a small village, where there's not always enough food and tempers are always short. He thinks it will bring a smile to his mother's face, prematurely aged and lined, will cause his father to lift his head from his cups and say he's proud. He knows he won't get the top grade and that no one will clasp him on the back and lift him in the air for cheers, but he thinks – he _hopes_ – that he's got enough heart. Sometimes, when the chips are down, luck and hope and heart are all that can get you through. Marco isn't too sure about luck, but heart and hope, of that he has plenty.

Jean is the opposite. He sees the world through fine-tuned lens, perhaps too sharp for Marco's taste, and he speaks bluntly, sharply. He thinks he knows exactly how the world works, and he's sure he's got it all figured out. He's confident in his abilities, perhaps overconfident, and he maps out the dream he's harbored for ten years, when his father smacked him so hard he saw stars. Jean's plan has always been to _escape_; Marco's has always been to _serve_. Marco needs a leader and Jean needs a follower, and on the surface, that's all they are; sometimes, though, just sometimes, Marco would speak up, speak loudly, speak with authority, and everyone would listen.

Deep down, in his gut, Jean knows that Marco would make a better leader than he ever will.

The cruel twist of fate is that no one else ever will.

* * *

The sound of horses on the cobblestones draws Sheila to the window, and with a wordless cry, she drops the pan she was scrubbing, dashing to the door to rip it open. The sight of a brown jacket, the crispness of fresh white pants and long brown straps, the sight of a soldier, of a _survivor_, lifts her heart, erases the age on her face, strengthens her arms, because Marco is _home_, is here, is alive -!

She throws open the door, but Marco's freckled face does not beam back at her. Instead, she is greeted with the sight of a tall, lean young man, hair lighter than Marco's, frame smaller than Marco's. His fist is tight against his heart, a salute, and there are tears on his face, mouth twisted in a grimace he can't quite hold back. In his hand is all that remains of Marco Bott.

* * *

The mountains are colder than anything Jean has ever experienced, and he scowls, wrapped tight in layers of clothes that are still not quite warm enough. The wind cuts through all and any holes in his coat, and he feels the snow beat against him, all the elements shrieking in rage this frozen night, like a hundred Titans readying for the kill.

He reaches the cabin, hands so clumsy with cold that it takes him two or three tries to open the door, before finally twisting it open. He stomps in, more to dislodge the ice hanging off him than anything else, and leans against the rough wood, exhaling slowly as warmth returns to his fingertips.

"It's fucking freezing outside," he says, to no one in particular, and busies himself with disrobing, discarding layer after layer until his body starts to look more human.

Sitting at the table near the fire is Eren, his 3DMG in his lap, being polished and buffed and shined. Jean, personally, doesn't see what good the gear will do them here – out in the blinding snow, they're blind and slow – but if it keeps Eren quiet, Jean can't complain. The two of them still occasionally bristle at each other, and it's not helped by the stress of being stranded out in the middle of nowhere.

"Any luck with firewood?" Eren asks, and Jean shakes his head, pulling a thick, warm sweater on, and sighing in relief.

"None close at hand, and I didn't dare go into the woods, just in case of Titans. We have a good stash for now. It'll last for a day or two, and by then the storm will be gone. Probably."

"Probably," Eren echoes, and the two of them share a grimace.

The fire is hot, and Eren has built it up to a roaring blaze: Jean could see the smoke drifting up through the chimney even through the blinding snow. He worried at first, that someone – some_thing_ – might see it, but cold does marvelous things to fear. Jean would rather die warm, if he can.

He hunches up next to the fireplace and pulls on another, warmer sweater, this one not so threadbare. It's a little small for him, but Jean likes how it feels, the snugness of it holding him together. He rubs his arms for added warmth and thrusts his hands towards the flames, keeping them there until the cold ache is replace by one of fire.

"You ever going to stop wearing Marco's clothes?"

Eren's voice is not sharp or accusatory; it simply asks a question, but Jean wipes his head about like Eren shouted a curse, his eyes narrowing.

"What's it to you?" He demands, not even bothering with a denial.

Eren shrugs, eyes on his gear. "It's a question, horse-face, not a charge of arrest."

Jean thinks of an insult to reply with; he thinks of several. Silence ticks on, but Eren doesn't give any indication that he is waiting for an answer or impatient for one; he simply holds his gear and inspects the straps, and Jean watches him.

Finally, a little gruffly, he says, "Marco's mom gave it to me."

Eren glances up, but says nothing.

"I told her that Marco d … well, I mean, it was just …" Jean ruffles his hair in an agitated manner, struggling for words. "It didn't … it didn't seem right to just let her find out through some bullshit informal letter. I wanted to let her know …"

Eren nods.

"I wanted her to know he was _brave_, ya know? I mean, he …" Jean swallows past a suddenly tight throat. "He died protecting me."

The fire sparks, a log crumbles.

"She gave me the clothes in his closet. Said it would be a waste to throw them away." Jean shrugs, like that's all there is to it, and returns to staring hard at the flames.

After a moment, Jean mutters, "He was always better at this then I was."

"What, wearing clothes?"

Jean makes a half-hearted gesture that would almost certainly have earned him a smack back at camp. "No, asshole. _This_. People. He knew how to talk to people. Knew how to connect with them. He should have been a squad leader. He shoulda … I don't know. He could have been in the MP, leading them out, cleaning them up. He coulda figured out Annie before she fucked us all up."

Eren tenses, as he always does when Annie is mentioned in his presence, but he doesn't argue with Jean's point.

"I always thought that I'd like to be in a squad he led," He says instead, finally placing his gear down and stretching his arms above his head. "He was a good man. Good soldier."

"And now he's dead." Jean says it gruffly, harshly, but it doesn't take the sting away.

Eren looks at him, and Jean thinks, for the dozenth time, that Eren has a dangerous stare; you never know if that kid is going to laugh or try and break your femur. "Lots of people are dead, Jean."

"Yeah?" Jean gives Eren his darkest glare. "And what are you going to do about it, Jaegar?"

Eren rises from his seat, his frame casting a temporary shadow over Jean, hunched over on the floor. From this angle, Jean can see the sharp shadows of Eren's face, and for half a second – less than a span of a heartbeat – he thinks he can see the features that comprise his Titan form.

"Fight." Eren says, his voice dark and strong and filled with that ceaseless determination. "Win."

He steps over Jean and heads for the bed near the window, leaving Jean by the fireplace. The room is dark but for the flicker of flames, and outside, the storm rages, fierce and angry. Tomorrow, the rest of their squad will reconvene with them; they'll bring news, maybe good, probably bad. They'll make plans of action, plans that will bring them at death's door, plans that might very well dwindle their number.

Jean stands, finds his own bed. He needs rest, if he is to fight, he needs to be ready for when he is needed.

He will not disappoint those blackened bones.


End file.
